All Hallows Eve, Vol. 1

Prologue

Prologue

Ambrose

“Majesty, please,” I beg my queen once more as I pace back and forth at the foot of the bed in her private chambers. With the king at least a full day's journey from the keep, it falls on me, their most trusted advisor and guard to watch over her. To ensure her safety as we try in vain to alert his majesty before the babe is born.

When the labor started late last night, I sent our fastest rider to deliver a message to the king, notifying him of the impending birth of his child. The castle is just over a day’s ride, so even if our rider had not stopped in his journey to rest, he would still be hours away.

If a rifter were present at the keep, we could have gotten word to the king within seconds. Their ability to transport through space, to jump from one place to another, makes them highly sought after within monarchies. Valuable information must be passed quickly.

As we are demonstrating now, with our queen in labor without her husband and king.

“No,” she groans, clenching down on the bedpost once more as sweat trickles down her forehead. Face puce from overexertion, she pants out, “it must be Florence. She’ll take care of her.”

“You’d trust the word of a stablehand? There is no present danger to the babe. The king will be here by morning and you can share your concerns with him then.” I stop pacing and walk around the edge of the bed near her head.

“We’re almost ready, your majesty,” the midwife says as she pokes her head out from under the sheet draped over the queen’s legs. “I can see the head. You’ll need to start pushing on your next contraction.”

A delicate, clammy hand clamps over my forearm in a vice-like grip. “Listen to me, Ambrose. The king won’t–” her voice cracks as pain sharpens her features. Not the physical kind. The soul-deep kind. The kind that comes not from birthing a child, but from a blow to the heart. She clears her throat and closes her eyes. When they open once more, there is a determination, a hardness to them that has my spine snapping straight. “The king won’t make it through the night. My child won’t live to see her first name day if she stays.”

The pain and exhaustion are making her hysterical. “The king is fine, your majesty. He’ll employ one of the castle rifters once the rider makes it into the city.”

The queen groans. “Push, your majesty,” the midwife urges and the pressure on my forearm intensifies as the queen’s face darkens a disturbing shade of puce.

“Good,” the midwife–Julianna, I think–says as the queen puffs out a breath and relaxes once more against the pillows.

“Ambrose, if ever there was a time to take me at my word, it would be now. You must listen when I tell you the king will not make it here, and I must do what I can to protect our child.” The clarity in her gaze gives me pause as she stares into my eyes imploring me to put some sort of pieces together…

“Gods be merciful. You’re a seer.” The grim set of her lips tells me I’ve hit the mark.

A seer. Capable of glimpsing the future. A valuable gift, but not one that would cause an uproar. There are many seers in our land. Some with the ability to see only small, murky visions like a gift they may receive or a glass breaking before it happens. Others see entire futures. Prophecies or battle outcomes. A powerful gift to have if used correctly, but not one that would require it be hidden from friends and family. Usually.

But to see the demise of our king…a vision like that could get her hanged for treason just on the off chance that the queen’s death would alter the future. It must be why neither of them ever told me about her gifts. Or anyone else for that matter. Nobody in the entire realm is aware our queen has the gift of sight.

“Another,” the midwife prompts and the queen pushes for what feels like two whole minutes, not once taking a breath. But at the end of the giant heave, an ear splitting scream comes from under the sheet.

The queen slumps onto the bed as if every last ounce of her energy was just used and now there is nothing left but an empty husk. The truth of that may not be far off, since her entire pregnancy was an anomaly of sorts.

Within the realm of Melvairne, pregnancy means nine months of good fortune for the mother. The babe gives mom a small power boost–rifters find themselves able to transport farther distances with fewer breaks, fire wielders can keep a house warm all winter without pause–while also supplying her with boundless energy. Her skin glows and hair grows longer and healthier.

It’s why there is never a shortage of pregnant women hobbling up and down the streets; every female in the realm chases that strength. Like a man looking for his next opium hit.

For our queen though…

There’s a reason the king sent her away until the babe could be born. When the queen didn’t get a boost of power or grow more energetic, when the babe seemed to suck the life out of her instead, the people grew wary of what it could mean.

Never in our history has there been a pregnancy like the queen’s. Where her skin seemed to grow thinner, paler with each passing month. The hair on her head lost its shine and felt brittle to the touch. While she still appeared beautiful, it was clear the queen was ill. Permanent dark circles marred the skin beneath her pale gray eyes.

The castle started to whisper, to theorize what it could mean. Perhaps the child wasn’t gifted like the others. Maybe the queen was unfaithful towards our king.

Or it could be that the queen herself was the defective one. Like her body was unable to handle pregnancy.

In either scenario, the people had cause to worry. Either for their current queen and her health, or the future king or queen when the baby would grow into its title with no powers to protect the kingdom. Both would mean Melvairne was weak. Ripe for invasion.

Which leads us to where we are now, a queen sequestered away in a small convent, away from prying eyes, to give birth to our future leader by herself.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife coos down at an impossibly small human swathed in a white cloth as she hands it to the queen. Or tries to.

“Adelia.” the queen drops her head to the pillows that she was trying to raise. “Her name is Adelia.”

The queen can’t seem to lift her arms enough to grab her. There is a pinch in my chest at the devastation in my queen–my friend’s– eyes. It draws me forward, and I gently take the child from the midwife and settle her on the queen’s chest, holding her there while they get acquainted.

After a few moments, the queen’s eyes flutter, trying desperately to stay open. “Ambrose, give my daughter to her,” she whispers and my brow furrows.

“To who?” I pull the child from her chest and bring her to my own, tucking her into the crook of my arm.

As I pull the babe from her mother’s chest, I nearly drop her as her skin starts to glow, startling me. What starts off as a faint shimmer grows and grows until it’s impossible to look, everyone in the room squinting their eyes and turning their faces from the child.

“What is happening?” I yell out into the room as furniture starts to move, the glass on the windows breaks, and papers swirl around us. It looks and feels as if a small tornado is blowing through as the babe in my arms screams so long and hard that her face turns purple.

The door swings open and Florence, one of the queen’s ladies walks in.

“Florence,” the queen croaks out, loud enough to be heard over the storm, though I’m not sure how she manages it. She looks seconds away from death.

Not needing another word from our queen, apparently, Florence glides to where I stand and places one hand on the child’s chest, the other on the top of her head and begins murmuring under her breath. It’s well known that Florence is a witch. And a powerful one at that. You don’t get to be directly under the queen or king’s employ without being formidable in your skill.

All at once, the tornado stops. Papers rustle to the floor, the curtains on the window quit blowing, and the noise dies down. As does the glow on the child’s skin. Little by little until there is nothing left but the same ivory color as the queen’s once was. I realize I’m still staring at the baby in wonder when hands try to grab her from my arms.

“No,” I blurt automatically, taking a step back. “Majesty, let me care for her.”

A small, secret smile graces her lips. “You will. But it’s not your time yet.” A pause and ragged breath and then she continues before I can argue, “They’ll look for her with you first. You must head them off, lead them away.” She licks her dry, chapped lips and closes her eyes once more.

“ Who?” I breath out impatiently, not understanding the threat. “Ow,” I grunt and instinctively go to rub the back of my head where Florence has whacked me before remembering the baby in my arms.

“Assassin’s, boy. Keep up.” This time when she attempts to grab the baby, I relinquish her. Ordinarily, I’d smart at being called boy. But Florence is nearly three hundred years my senior, kept young from an anti-aging spell that could last theoretically for another three hundred years before she’d show signs of aging. The oldest documents witch lived to be nine hundred and twenty years old before the spell could no longer hold her body together.

There’s a commotion outside the door, coming from down the hallway, and my heart picks up. I do not know exactly what is happening, but I can understand the threat is now very real. I look to the queen to ask another question and jerk at the lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

“Our time is up. Remember what she said,” Florence whispers urgently, wrapping the baby in a shawl she had tucked into her dress, “lead them away. It’s her best chance at survival.”

Then she starts another incantation, one I recognize as a spell to open a portal. A portal to another realm.

“Wait,” I grit, “I…” What? I don’t have the words to describe what I’m feeling in this moment. Abandonment, a bite of fear, urgency.

Florence must know exactly what I’m feeling, it must be written on my face, because as the portal opens and a blue green glow illuminates the room, she walks up to me, pats me lightly on the cheek, and tells me, “this isn’t goodbye, Duke. We’ll see you again. Rather, you’ll find us.”

Then she steps through the portal, it vanishes, and footsteps race down the hall towards the room. My first thought is to flee. But with the queen’s body laying here unprotected, I can’t bring myself to leave her alone. She deserves a proper burial.

I widen my stance, a slight bend to my knees, and withdraw four of my throwing daggers from their holsters. A hum starts under my skin as my power races through my veins.

This is what I’m good at, what I was born to do.

Fight.

Protect.

I’ll make sure the road is clear, that the assassins are no longer a threat, before I begin my search for our princess.